


i'm at the combination dunkin donuts & urgent care

by uumiho



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humanstuck, M/M, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:36:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7696720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumiho/pseuds/uumiho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas is convinced beyond a doubt that his neighbor is some variety of murderer, until they actually meet in person. Highlights include blood at the laundromat, Dave's weird obsession with candles, and a box of shitty swords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm at the combination dunkin donuts & urgent care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corruptedkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corruptedkid/gifts).



> congrats rosesandrecords i hope you enjoy this ridiculous nonsense
> 
> it's way longer than i meant for it to be i honestly shouldn't even call this shit drabbles but that's what i get for deciding to combine every prompt into one fic lmao

While you’re not going so far as to post any conspiracy theories about it on your blog, you’re pretty sure your neighbor is a serial killer and/or contract murderer.

It’s not that when you look out your windows you can see his flat, which has large windows and is only curtained sparingly. The most incriminating thing you’ve seen is him dancing to all variety of trashy pop music, no weird coolers or power tools, and he doesn’t seem to notice when you’re watching him, or even that there’s a clear view across the alley between his apartment building and yours, so it’s not like you ever find him watching you, but…

You’re still pretty sure.

For one, when he moved in a few months ago, he carried all his normal stuff into the house first. Then, as dusk started to fall, you saw him organizing a literal cache of preserved animal parts. After he took them inside you didn’t see where he put them, but you are highly willing to believe there’s human organs and/or a deformed human fetus in there somewhere. That wasn’t what did it, though. What convinced you that he was some kind of contract killer is that, later that night, when it was pitch black and terrifying and you had to take the trash out because you procrastinated earlier, you ran into him.

He didn’t speak—not anything you understood, though he was mumbling to himself as he unloaded one final box from whoever’s car he was borrowing (he doesn’t seem to own one, himself). At first he didn’t see you, because he’s always wearing these douchey sunglasses, and nighttime is _fucking dark_ , but then he dropped the box, and in response, you knocked over your trash can.

The box was full of fucking swords. Honest-to-god swords, though you didn’t get a good look because you were shaking and righting your trash can, eyes fixed on your new neighbor as he hurriedly tried to conceal the evidence.

Neither of you spoke, but you left the encounter convinced you’d inadvertently become a target.

Months pass, though, and no one shows up at your door with an axe, and you don’t find any body parts in your refrigerator, so your paranoia decreases a bit. Maybe you’re just a dumbass. Maybe you are. You still avoid talking to him, which is fine, because you work a lot and he never seems to leave his apartment. At least not when you can see.

Christmas is the first time you ever see people in his apartment. They come, and they go, and you continue on with your own life, until three o’clock in the middle of January, and the fire alarm goes off. Half asleep, you shove yourself into a sweater and jeans, putting your bare feet into boots, and only grab your phone and wallet before stumbling down the stairs, escaping the building and breaking into the freezing cold winter air. 

No one else is around. You look at the lawn blearily, noting that none of your buildingmates have joined you outside. Then you look across the way and realize— it wasn’t _your_ building’s alarm that was going off, it was the next door one. Smoke is pouring out of the windows of your across-the-alley neighbor’s flat, and there he is, in superhero jammies and a t-shirt, shivering in the cold as everyone else bitches and gives him dirty looks. “Sorry,” he’s saying, hands shoved into his pockets as he shakes in the freezing wind.

You stomp over, because serial killer or not, this is unacceptable. “What the fuck,” you say, clearly to him, “Were you doing at three in the morning? Did you leave your stupid fucking candles lit again?”

He blinks at you, shoulders hunched in toward his ears. “Do I know you?”

You realize that he doesn’t, nor does he know that you watch him through the windows for proof that he’s a secret murderer. “Uh,” you say. “I’m your neighbor.”

“Oh,” he says, glancing at your building. There are a few lights on, but no one else was dumb enough to actually come outside. “Cool. Nice to meet you. Sorry about waking you up, dude. And uh, didn’t mean to disturb you with the candles, I guess.”

You grit your teeth. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t worry, though,” he says blandly. “I put the fire out. It was just a—” He pauses. “Cooking experiment gone wrong.”

That pause is suspicious, but honestly, this kid looks like such a skinny dork you don’t actually believe he could kill anyone, even though you’ve seen every episode of Criminal Minds and the killers vary in stature— his chosen weapon is a sword, and he doesn’t actually look capable of wielding one. “Don’t cook at three AM ever again,” you advise, “and maybe you won’t set your food on fire.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shakes his head. “I’ll keep it in mind. I’m Dave, by the way.”

Squinting, you respond, “Karkat.” You don’t want to give him too much information. Sometimes the killers aren’t random and they fixate on acquaintances. You hope he hasn’t guessed that you live alone.

“Nice to meet you,” he says a second time, like he didn’t say it just two minutes ago. “Sorry again about the, uh. Fire alarm.” You’re getting the impression that this guy isn’t super socially savvy, which could go either way, honestly. Sociopaths are more charismatic, but eccentric killers can—

You stop the train of thought, because the guy’s brown skin is turning bright red from the cold, and his speech is starting to tremble from how bad he’s shivering. He looks way too pathetic to ever kill someone, and you feel kind of stupid for ever thinking otherwise. Maybe the kid just has weird hobbies, like collecting dead shit in jars and cooking at three AM. It’s fine. You do weird things, too, like…

… well, you really can’t think of anything as uncomfortable as a box of swords that he has in his apartment, but you do have a small locking chest full of sex toys. Maybe that counts.

In any case, you pull off your sweater, wincing as the biting cold lances through your body. Fortunately, you don’t sleep shirtless, and were wearing a baggy long-sleeved shirt under the sweater. “Here,” you say, shoving it at Dave’s chest. “I don’t need it back.” Then you walk away quickly, before Dave can thank you. You kinda just want to put the whole mess out of your mind and forget it ever happened.

Two weeks later, Dave walks into the laundromat with a black plastic garbage bag slung over his shoulder. You’re sitting on a bench staring at your phone, waiting for your clothing to dry. There’s a line of washing machines on your left, and the closest one to the bench is not in use. Of course, Dave goes for that one. It doesn’t seem to be intentional, because when he glances nervously at you, there’s no recognition in his eyes for the first ten seconds. “Hi, Dave,” you say evenly.

Dave blinks. You try again, “Fire alarm. Two weeks ago.”

“Oh!” Laughing nervously, Dave says, “Right. Sorry. What’s up?” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Laundry day.”

“Oh,” Dave says, much more subdued. He has this weird monotone that doesn’t seem fully natural, and his face only twitches in aborted half-emotions, before going utterly still. It’s weird. “Gotcha.” He looks around like he’d rather be anywhere else, but the line of washers, while not fully occupied, are surrounded by more people than this little corner, so he swallows, seems to make up his mind, and then opens the machine.

You try not to pry, but you can’t help but glance up at the movement when Dave starts shoveling clothes into the machine. You almost swallow your tongue when you see why, you assume, he looked so nervous.

His hands are red. From the clothes. Something dark and sticky is transferring from the fabric to his hands, and oh god, there’s a lot of clothes in there. More than just his—you think you see a skirt in there, even. You can’t even assume he just likes skirts, because it looks like eight times too small for him. Fuck. Fuck!

You were right. You didn’t predict this happening, but you stare very intently at your phone the whole time he finishes loading, awkwardly trying to wipe the sticky red (blood, oh god) stuff off on the fabric so he looks less incriminating. You act like you haven’t seen anything. If you don’t confront him, he probably won’t pull out an axe and behead you. Probably.  

You try to make it look very casual as you get up to check on your clothes. Damn. Still ten minutes left. You’re going to die. You spend a good three minutes deliberating between just sitting there by the drier and walking back to the bench, which Dave is now sitting on, looking shifty and uncomfortable. Will he guess that you don’t come back because of him? Will he guess that you noticed his _bloody fucking laundry load?_ God, he knows where you live. You can’t risk pissing him off, he might be all… unstable and shit. Fuck.

Okay, okay. Breathe, Karkat. You can do this.

Acting as casual as you can, you wander back over to the bench and sit at the other end, huffing a sigh.

Dave sneaks a glance at you. You pretend not to notice, and through some miracle, you get out of the laundromat with both your laundry and your life.

One day he finally notices you noticing him, except it’s not in a romantic way at all. It’s mid-day and his apartment is curtainless, as usual, and he’s wearing only boxers, and the dulcet tones of Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You Been Gone” are blasting from his open windows. It’s the warmest day of the year so far, and you guess he was enjoying it until he saw you giving him a weird look from across the alley.

When he realizes that you’ve realized that you’ve both realized what just happened, he pauses in the middle of his studio, looking incredibly abashed and very red, like that first night you met, but you wager it’s from embarrassment this time, not cold. He disappears into some part of his flat that you can’t see, and you close all your curtains, even though it’s beautiful outside.

Forty-eight hours later, there’s a knock at your door. You nearly spill tea all over yourself, but narrowly avoid it. “Shit,” you hiss, trying to mop up the mess with one of your shirts. There’s another knock. If it was just the post, there would have been one. No one really visits you.

You are actively terrified, which is obviously why you go and answer the door.

Dave stands there looking awkward, holding the sweater you gave him back in January. “I told you I didn’t need that back,” is the first thing out of your mouth.

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really fit me, and I’m not a sweater guy, anyway…”

You want to tell him to burn it, but no, you won’t, not after the last incident involving him and fire. You take it from his hands, resolving to burn it yourself. “Well, uh. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Trying to keep your cool, you say, “Can I help you?”

Dave fidgets a bit, then leans a hand against the doorjamb. You take a step back, brows drawn low. “Please don’t tell anyone I listen to Kelly Clarkson,” he says. “I listen to shit ironically all the time but everyone thinks I don’t actually enjoy it, and y’know, I have a reputation to uphold.”

You stare at him. “I barely know you. I don’t know any of your friends.”

He falters. “Yeah, well. Just in case, I mean… Y’know.”

You do not, actually, know, but you nod anyway in hopes that it’ll make him leave. “Alright.”

Nodding back at you, Dave says, “Alright, later then,” and disappears. You close the door and take a long, relieved breath. For a serial killer, this guy really is biding his time when it comes to finding a reason to kill you.

The day finally comes when there’s another knock on your door, and you approach it oddly resigned to your fate. It’s eleven o’clock on a Tuesday. Seems like a good time to die. It’s Dave again when you open the door, and he’s covered in blood. Wow, it feels weird to be right.

“Hey,” you say, weirdly apathetic.

The spell is broken when Dave speaks, his voice shaking. “Yo, uh, hey, sorry to bother you like this, but— I really— I—” He shows you his arm, in way of explanation. It looks pretty gory: a severe cut deep into the flesh. You wonder if one of his victims turned his own sword against him. “I can’t afford an ambulance,” he says, awkwardly vulnerable, bleeding all over your front step.

Huh, you think. And then you reach over to the keyhook and grab your car keys. “There’s an urgent care about a mile from here,” you say, “I’ll drive.” You don’t think about how he must have accrued that injury, because he just seems so goddamn pathetic all the time, awkward and alone and uncomfortable, that you suppose you can at least get on his good side. Maybe when he finally snaps and takes his building burning record up to 11, he’ll warn you before planting the pipe bomb.

You grab a towel to wrap his arm in before leading him out to the parking lot, where your old chevy clunker that’s almost as old as you are lives, and invite him to continue bleeding all over the worn interior. Maybe the DNA evidence will help the cops. If it isn’t tainted by your blood, you guess.

Something weird happens on the two minute drive to the urgent care, though. He rambles. Talks more than you’ve ever heard anyone talk in your entire life. You learn about Dave Strider (that’s his last name, what the fuck) and his interests and his entire history in those two short minutes between your apartment and the urgent care drive-through. When you brake at the front of the building, Dave looks nervously out and says nothing but, “Who the fuck puts a Dunkin Donuts next to an Urgent Care?”

You glance at the neighboring business, which is in fact a donut shop. “Hungry people,” you guess, then look at him expectantly. He’s still not getting out of your car, and is in fact awkwardly clutching the towel around his injured arm. You feel a weird sort of sympathy for this pathetic victimized murderer sitting in your car, and so you surprise yourself saying, “I’m just gonna go park. Get signed in. I’ll come inside in a second.”

Dave looks at you like you are the cherry on top of a sundae, with the most grateful expression you’ve ever seen from someone wearing sunglasses at night. “Really, dude?”

“Yeah, I promise, whatever, get out of my fucking car before you bleed out.” He does.

You can’t believe you’re doing this, but you do. You park, buy two donuts, guessing at the chocolate-and-sprinkles one for Dave, and walk into the Urgent Care, where he’s sitting in the waiting room. He looks a bit cleaned up, but they apparently haven’t dubbed the injury particularly lethal, so you expect there to be a bit of a waiting time. You sit across the aisle from him and offer up the donut.

He blinks, then murmurs, “Thanks, dude,” and accepts it. You roll your eyes, not caring anymore if he sees.

“Whatever. I was hungry.”

“Guess you’re the kinda person to put a medical facility next to a donut chain too, huh.”

You snort. “I guess so. It’s not a bad idea. These waiting times are killer.”

“Tell me about it. They said it was gonna be around two hours before I see a doctor.”

“Fuck,” you sigh. “Tell me at least you have cell reception.”

Dave winces and glances at his phone. “Two bars,” he announces, sounding defeated.

This should be the part where you wish him luck with his sad magazine life and take off. He can surely call an Uber once he’s not covered in blood, or walk. It’s nice outside, even at night, and it’s only a mile. He’ll be home in twenty minutes. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay and amuse you or whatever,” you say, literally not believing it while it’s coming out of your mouth.

What the fuck, Karkat.

For the first time ever since the day he moved in, you see Dave Strider smile. It’s a shy, secret thing, that looks like it’s trying to hide even as it starts to twitch its way across his mouth. You feel oddly content at having inspired such an emotion in such a viscerally uncomfortable person. You almost want to smile yourself, but you don’t. “So, uh… you make music?”

His smile falls, and then flickers back to life like a neon sign lighting up a dark street corner. You realize belatedly that you aren’t afraid of him anymore. You don’t think you could ever be afraid of him again, honestly.

You do wait with him. You wait the full _three fucking hours_ , which, haha, fuck. At one point they separate the two of you, and you think about going home to sleep, but you don’t. It’s four AM when they bring you back and you see Dave in a hospital gown, gauze wrapped around his arm. “Sup,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer tiredly. “How are you feeling?”

“Pain meds are good. They’re discharging me. Apparently I’m not dying after all, I just nicked a vein, which was why there was so much blood. They put stitches in and now they’re sending me home.”

“With more pain stuff?” you ask.

“Duh,” Dave says. “Shit hurt like a motherfucker. I would have been cashed if I hadn’t had you to distract me.”

You smile a tiny bit, finding yourself glad to have alleviated some of his pain. Then you remember that you don’t know how he got the wound. If the doctors have already inspected him they probably have their own suspicions, and this kid is so bad at talking you’re sure he wouldn’t be able to pull a convincing spiel about what actually happened. You feel your alliances shifting. “Hey, uh…” You lean in closer, voice lowering. “I’m not going to ask any questions, but should I be on the lookout for anything?”

Dave’s nose wrinkles like he smells something bad. “For...what?”

Shifting, you try to shrug and gesture and fail at both, instead just frowning at him intensely. “I don’t need to know how you got fucked up like that,” you say seriously, “I just need to know what I’m supposed to say to the cops.”

A startled laugh combining amusement and horror bursts out of Dave’s mouth. He claps a hand over it a second later, clears his throat, and then continues. “Dude,” he hisses, “Why would you need to say anything to the cops? It’s not like I got into a fight, I just sliced myself on the tablesaw at work.”

You blink. “You have a job?”

Dave blinks. “How else would I pay rent?”

“I just, I, uh,” you don’t think you can admit to having paid attention to when he leaves his apartment, so you don’t, you just stammer and change the subject. “Where do you work?”

“At a film studio,” Dave says, expression still weird. “I’m a special effects artist.”

“You…” Oh your absolute fuck. It all makes sense now. “Special effects.”

“Yeah,” he continues. “I make masks and do make-up and all sorts of shit, the stuff people usually do with CGI now. Some of us still stick to the good old shit. I was trying to make a model when I slipped, and...” He gestures with his free hand to his bandaged arm.

The preserved dead shit. The swords. He just does props and make-up. Holy shit. “So that’s what the blood was that day at the laundromat—”

Snorting, Dave said, “We were shooting a zombie scene, everyone got doused and then I got picked to take the costumes to the wash.” He shakes his head, then seems to realize something is amiss with the conversation. “I didn’t realize you’d noticed, to be honest.” If only he knew. “What…” Damn it, he’s going to ask. You say goodbye to your dignity. “What did you think I’d done, killed someone?” He tries to laugh it off, but your face gives you away. Dave sobers, and then lets out an incredulous gasp. “You thought I was—”

“Keep your voice down,” you snap.

He’s desperately trying to repress snickers. “How long did you think you were living next to a psycho?” he asks.

You slap a hand over your face and admit: “Only the entire time.”

“Holy shit,” Dave says. “That’s amazing.”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve never been so complimented in my life.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’ve made my entire year. I’m serious.”

“I’m leaving.”

You don’t, though. You stay until he’s discharged, and even help him get back into his shirt. (You don’t ogle when you realize he’s actually pretty toned under all that social anxiety.) Dave pays his copay and you walk out together, you still feeling privately mortified at having spent the better part of six months genuinely believing you were living next to a serial killer—although, even your level of paranoia isn’t as embarrassing as having believed _Dave Strider_ was anything but a huge fucking nerd making a living doing huge fucking nerd things. Ridiculous.

You drive him back home, relieved when he doesn’t mention it again. “Do you need any help getting into your apartment?” you ask.

“Nah,” Dave says. “I’m fine. Hey, though.”

You look at him warily, ready to be mocked, but all he does is—

Lean in real quick to place a soft, barely there peck on your lips. He immediately reels back, putting twice as much distance between you. His hand twists into his hair, then drops. “I jus’ wanted to say, it was rad as hell for you to take me to the hospital even though you thought I was a murderer.”

A doofy smile that you try to screw out of existence takes your lips hostage, and you look away, shuffling your feet. “It’s no big deal,” you hedge. “At least maybe we can talk without me worrying you’ll murder me with an axe.”

“An axe?” Dave says, dark eyebrows raising over the rim of his shades. “No way. I’m way more of a sword guy.” Then he nudges his glasses aside, winks at you, and resettles them as he sidesteps toward his apartment door.

“I’m not going to tell you that you’re about to hit the doorjamb,” you say transparently. Dave catches himself a second before he does. You snerk.

“Thanks, Mister Not Helpful At All, Even A Little Bit.” Dave pauses, and inspects you. “Y’know… you could go back home, but it’s like, five AM and neither of us have slept.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “And your point?”

“Wanna…” Dave trails off, faltering a bit, then draws himself back up, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the doorjamb he was two seconds away from knocking into just a moment ago. “Wanna come in and make out instead?” A faint smirk hits his lips. “Or are serial killers not your type?”

You flip him off, but it’s halfhearted. “I think I can make an exception.”

**Author's Note:**

> and they lived happily ever after


End file.
